


A Close Shave

by NorthernSparrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Facial Shaving, Fluff and Smut, Guilty Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, One Shot, Oral Sex, Season/Series 09, Shameless Smut, Sick Castiel, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3090167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernSparrow/pseuds/NorthernSparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optional and very explicit Destiel epilogue to my gen/pre-Destiel Christmas fic "A Winter's Tale." This can be read on its own though. Cas is feeling scruffy and wants a clean shave for the new year; Dean offers to help with the shaving, and, y'know, stuff happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Close Shave

_A/N - This is an optional one-shot epilogue to A Winter's Tale. (Can be read on its own though; all you need to know is, it's New Year's Eve in mid-season 9, Cas is still human and is getting over a serious illness, and Dean is still feeling guilty for having kicked him out of the bunker.) I'm posting it separately because this is an explicit Destiel scene, but A Winter's Tale was carefully written so that it can be read both ways, non-Destiel or Destiel (just like the show!). That said, over the last week I was taken with the idea of a Destiel scene in which Dean helps Cas shave, and it occurred to me this would fit really well after the end of A Winter's Tale. Ya know, Cas is still kinda weak and he has that cut on his chin and he never really learned how to shave, so he might need some help..._

_Caution: EXPLICIT SLASH AHEAD._

 

* * *

By New Year's Eve, Cas was a week further along in his recovery and was doing better, but he still wasn't completely back to normal. The long drive home on Christmas Eve, the excitement of Christmas and the adjustment to being "home" with Sam and Dean had all obviously been good things, but had clearly drained him as well. The doctors had warned Sam and Dean to expect Cas to be tired for at least two weeks more, and indeed Cas spent most of the next week asleep.

From Christmas to New Year's, Cas slept till at least noon every day, rousing only now and then to totter out to the kitchen for a meal, to the bathroom for a shower, or to the TV room - where he usually passed out on the sofa halfway through a movie. The pneumonia coughs seemed gone, at least, but he was clearly still exhausted and he seemed to not be fully over the flu. He still couldn't even walk very far without getting tired. 

By New Year's Eve he was at last better, but definitely still not strong. So Sam and Dean scrapped their fairly-vague plans for a night out at a bar on New Year's Eve, and instead they had a mellow New Year's at the bunker.

It was nice to just stay home. Relaxing, even. Dean made dinner for the three of them: twice-baked potatoes heaped with melted cheese, a salad to keep Sam happy, and a nice set of steaks that came out pretty damn delicious, Dean thought.

Sam even made a special run to a grocery store earlier in the day just to get a couple of pies (apple and pumpkin), a gesture that Dean truly appreciated.

Pie slices in hand, the Bond/Harry-Potter movie marathon continued (though they kept having to back up and re-watch ones Cas had fallen asleep in the middle of). At midnight they watched the ball drop in Times Square on TV, and toasted each other with a few beers.

 _It's actually pretty nice to have a holiday where almost nothing happens,_ Dean thought.  _Nice and mellow._

After the midnight festivities and the toasts, Dean started the next Bond movie (they'd gotten up to "The Spy Who Loved Me") and settled back on the sofa by Cas's feet. Sam was sprawled out in what had become his usual spot, the easy chair on the other side of the sofa near Cas's head. Only a few minutes into the opening scene, right in the middle of Bond parachuting off a cliff with a set of skis on, Sam said "Whoa," did a smooth lunge from his chair over toward Cas, and grabbed Cas's slowly-tipping beer bottle.

Cas had fallen asleep with his beer bottle propped on his chest.

"Smooth, Sammy," Dean said, slightly annoyed at himself for not keeping a better eye on Cas himself.

"Hey," said Cas, opening his eyes and waving one hand groggily. "Where's my beer?"

"You lose it if you fall asleep," said Dean.

"Especially if you're about to spill it all over the sofa," added Sam. "You know what, guys. Cas is wiped out, I'm kinda wiped out too, and I'm thinking maybe we could all just head to bed."

"Oh," said Cas, sitting up a little and trying to blink himself awake. "I'm not ready yet. I was going to take a shower and shave."

"Shave? Now?" said Dean, looking at Cas's scruffy half-beard. The last shave Cas had gotten had been back in the hospital a week ago, when the nurses had helped him shave just before his release.

Sam said, "You haven't shaved in a week, Cas. You want to shave now? At midnight?"

"Exactly," Cas said, scratching at his week-old stubble. "I've been letting it slide, and I shouldn't let myself do that. You both always shave, every day. And... well, I wanted to face the new year clean and shaved. Healthy again. Back in form."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

 _He wants to fit in,_ Dean remembered, looking back at Cas.  _And probably he wants to look like he used to look. Back when he had his powers._

_The only other time he's let himself look like this was in Purgatory, and those were bad times._

Sam seemed to get it too, for he said, "Not a bad idea. But if you really want to do it, you better head to the shower and do it now, before you totally pass out. Me, I'm gonna go crash and do my shaving in the morning. Cas, you use the front bathroom for your shave, I'll use the back one to get ready for bed. Dean, you need any help with anything?"

"Nah," said Dean. "I'm good. I'll make sure Cas doesn't drown in the shower, and then I'll just hit the sack myself. You go pack it in. And happy new year."

Sam nodded. "Happy new year, guys," he said, reaching down to ruffle Cas's hair, and then he gave Dean a slap on the shoulder. He headed back down the hall.

Dean watched him disappear down the hallway, and found himself smiling a little. Sam seemed so much more mellow.

So much more like himself. At last.

Maybe this year really would be better than last year?

Certainly it couldn't be worse.

Cas was already lurching up to his feet, still looking a little groggy. But he still insisted on wanting to do both the shower and the shave, so Dean offered him an arm to lean on as he made his slow way to his room, where Cas selected a couple of his nice new towels and picked up his little razor.

Cas insisted he could make his way to the front bathroom on his own from there. Dean watched him disappear down the hall and through the bathroom door, and then headed to the back bathroom himself. Sam was already out, so Dean took a quick shower there himself, and changed into his winter sleeping clothes of sweatpants and an old flannel shirt.

Cas still wasn't out of the bathroom, so Dean went back to the kitchen to do a last round of cleanup and to pick up the beer bottles.

Even after that, Cas  _still_ wasn't out of the bathroom. Dean started to get a little worried. He walked to the bathroom and listened for a moment.

No noise.

No shower sounds, no running water. No nothing.

"Cas?" Dean said, knocking softly. "I promised Sam you wouldn't drown. You ok?"

"I'm ok," said a soft voice.

It wasn't Cas's usual tone. He sounded a little muted.

Dean said, "You need any help?"

A pause.

Then a click. Cas had unlocked the door. Dean knocked again, and said, "Can I come in?" There was no answer, so he tentatively swung the door open.

Cas was sitting on the tub near the door, looking up at Dean a little woefully. Looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower; he was wearing only a towel wrapped around his hips. And he was holding a bloody washcloth to his face. A  _very_  bloody washcloth.

"I had a little nick," said Cas, glancing down at the washcloth.

"Jeez, Cas, what'd you do?" said Dean, crouching in front of him.

Cas sighed, lowering the washcloth. He'd apparently gotten through the shower successfully and had just started the shave, but he already had some small bleeding nicks on his neck, and a really nasty one right under his lower lip that was bleeding pretty freely.

"I forgot I had a facial injury," Cas said. He let out another tight, tired sigh. "I keep forgetting I don't heal fast anymore. I had some stitches right here, on my chin—" he gestured to the place that was bleeding— " and my lip was split there too, when I was tortured. It's mostly healed now but it's still swollen. I forgot, and tried to shave right over it and I must have nicked it." He looked down at the bloody washcloth. "And I've ruined my new washcloth," he added sadly.

"Ah, Cas," said Dean. He pulled the washcloth out of Cas's hand, set it in the sink, and took a look at the cut. Several weeks ago Cas's lower lip had been split on the left side, and there had been a nasty cut extending from the split lip all the way down to his chin. He'd even had a couple stitches there, though those has been removed. It was mostly healed now, as he'd said, but Cas had somehow managed to slice it partly open again, on the swollen area just below his lower lip.

"It's not too bad," said Dean, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and blotting the bleeding area. He handed the toilet paper to Cas, saying, "Here, hold this toilet paper to it for a sec— let me get a bit of styptic pencil on it and that'll stop the bleeding."

"A bit of what?" said Cas, obediently pressing the wad of toilet paper to the cut.

"Styptic pencil," said Dean, flipping open the medicine cabinet to grab a short, stubby little white pencil. He turned back to Cas and crouched in front of him, moved Cas's hand away and rubbed the little white pencil gently on Cas's cut. Like magic the bleeding stopped. "Makes blood vessels contract," Dean explained, dabbing the whitish powder from the pencil onto the cut a few more times. "The military uses a powder made of the same stuff. Here, here's some fresh T.P., hold this on it for a minute more— just press it on there to be sure it's stopped." Cas did so, and Dean turned to the washcloth, saying, "Also, your washcloth'll be fine— I'll wash it out in cold water, then a bit of hydrogen peroxide, and then we'll bleach it tomorrow. It'll be snowy white again, you'll see."

Dean got to work with the washcloth. Cas watched him scrubbing it, and said softly, "Thank you, Dean."

"No trouble, Cas." With a little laugh, Dean added, "Being around Winchesters means you'll learn everything there is to know about stopping bleeding. And dealing with bloodstains."

"I seem to bleed a lot when I shave," Cas said. He sounded a little frustrated, and he gestured to his neck. "I've been shaving every day for months now and I still get all these little nicks. Actually I'm getting them a lot more often. More every time. It seems I'm getting worse at shaving instead of better."

Dean paused from the washcloth-scrubbing and looked over at Cas.

"Let me see your razor," Dean said. Cas handed it to him, and Dean took a look.

Cheap disposable razor. Dean touched the blade edges tentatively. Dull, as he'd suspected.

"Cas, how long you been using this?"

"I've had it the whole time," Cas said. "So...  five months, by now? I was using it every day."

"Well, there's your problem," Dean said, waving the razor at him. "These go dull pretty quick. You need to change them more often. Damn, I should've thought of getting you a good razor for Christmas. Dull razors will irritate your skin a lot more. And, also, what kind of shaving cream are you shaving with?"

Cas gave him a blank look.

"You  _are_ using shaving cream, right?" said Dean. "Soap? Something?"

"Just... hot water?" said Cas doubtfully. "Was I supposed to use a cream?"

Dean looked at him.

 _Nobody ever showed him how to shave,_  Dean thought. _Dad showed me. I showed Sammy. But nobody showed Cas anything._

And Dean got an idea.

He checked the washcloth— it was good now, just needed a soak overnight with the bit of peroxide. He set it aside in a little bowl, and turned back to Cas, saying, "Cas, how about I show you how to do a good shave. If you like, I can even do it on you, to demonstrate. Like I'm a barber in a barbershop and you're the customer. I'll show you the whole deal. Better razor, good shaving cream, aftershave, the works. You deserve a quality shave anyway. But it's late, so, we could do it tomorrow, or—"

"Now, please," said Cas, sitting up a little straighter. "I mean, if you don't mind. If you're not too tired."

Dean grinned. "I was gonna be up watching James Bond anyway. But I think it'd be more fun to get you all ready for the new year, huh?"

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later Cas was settled on his back in his  bed, dressed now in the flannel pj bottoms (but still with nothing on top— Dean hadn't wanted to get his pajama-tops wet). Dean had moved all his pillows aside and had arranged a couple of towels under Cas's head to keep the sheet dry. Two chairs were lined up at the side of the bed holding an array of shaving gear: a couple bowls of clean hot water, with some fresh hand-towels and washcloths. And Dean's best razor, with a new blade, and his favorite shaving cream and a good brush.

Dean sat down by Cas's side, dunked a hand-towel in the hot water, and wrung it out. "So, Cas, there's quick shaves and there's quality shaves. I usually do a quick shave, but, if you're getting nicks and sore spots like you are, it's a sign you need to step it up to the quality shave. So this is gonna be a quality shave. This'll be hot, just relax—" He spread the steaming-hot towel around Cas's chin, cheeks and neck. Cas flinched at the heat at first, but soon relaxed into it. Dean explained, "This is the classic way to do it, barbershop-style. Hot damp towel for three minutes, to soften up the hairs. Also it just feels good, right? A quality shave is a time to pamper yourself! Hot towel, good new blade, the works... See, look, I'm even using the hipster old-fashioned double-edge blade, and, check it out here, a classy old boar-bristle brush— this one's Dad's, actually—" Dean held it up to show him, and Cas looked at it with interest— "and even some fancy real shaving cream, not the fizzy can kind. And aftershave too, though I'll be sure and keep that off your cut."

"What's the aftershave for?"

"Makes you smell nice," said Dean. "Just in case anybody might wanna smell you! Always a good idea to smell nice, just in case... um... Uh."

Cas was looking a little confused, so Dean added hastily, "Aftershave pampers your skin. Calms it down, softens it. Anyway, you just lie there and relax for three minutes and then I'll do the shaving cream. "

Dean spent the next three minutes giving Cas a little spiel about shaving— proper skin care, good razors, and the age-old debate about whether to shave against the grain (closer shave) or with the grain (less irritation).

Then he treated Cas to a real old-fashioned barbershop shave. Quality shaving cream, lathered up with the old boar-bristle brush and laid on in a nice thick layer. (Carefully avoiding the half-healed cut just under Cas's lower lip). And then the shave. Dean was fond of his classic old safety-razor, with the double-edged blade. "These may be old-fashioned, but I like 'em better than the cheap disposable kind," Dean said, drawing the razor gently up Cas's neck to his jawline. "Much less irritating. Cuts the hair cleaner." As he started the second stroke, he explained the technique he liked to use himself: Two strokes along the grain of the hair growth, then one against.

Dean worked slowly, with careful, smooth, gentle strokes. It was a little odd to be working on someone else (in fact, it was more than a little distracting to have Cas gazing up at him from so close) and he wanted to do a good job, so he moved carefully. He was also aware that Cas did still have some injuries to work around. The cut Cas had suffered earlier tonight, below the lower lip, was the most obvious, but he also had a smattering of a few other slight cuts here and there, as well as the fading bruises across his cheeks. The bruises were almost gone now, but Dean still was very careful, drawing the razor very slowly and lightly over the bruised areas and watching Cas closely for any wincing.

But Cas seemed relaxed.

He was just looking up at Dean.

Dean finished Cas's neck and both cheeks, explaining all the steps as he went. Last he tackled the tricky spots of the chin and upper lip, moving with special care around the sore spot on his lower lip, and the place that had been cut where the stitches had been. Dean shaved very carefully around it, getting as close as he could, trying to keep the shaving cream out of the cuts.

He felt Cas's warm breath on his hand as he worked.

Cas's eyes were on his face the whole time.

At last it was all done. Dean switched to a new, clean, damp washcloth and went over Cas's face carefully, wiping away all the last traces of shaving cream. One cheek, then the other; then rinse the washcloth; then the neck, wiped clean in several soft, careful strokes. Then rinse the washcloth again; and then his lips and chin. Finally, the aftershave, taking care to avoid the cuts.

Dean realized he was enjoying the process. It was rather like washing the Impala, or cleaning his guns. Taking care of something important to him; getting it all smooth and clean.

And it was rather like something else entirely, but Dean pushed that thought away.

Cas was still watching him, his eyes resting on Dean's face. He hadn't spoken for a while, but now he said, into the silence, "Thank you for doing this for me, Dean."

"My pleasure," said Dean. "Almost done, now. Just want to check your cut here." He prodded very gently at the skin on either side of the cut. Dean ran his fingertips gently across Cas's chin, back and forth, till he found a few bits of stubble right near the cut that had escaped the razor. He then did a few touch-ups, delicately dabbing on a bit of shaving cream here and a bit there, carefully shaving away the few tiny bits of stubble that remained around the cut, and wiping the whole area clean again.

He had to lean close to do this, and now he could feel Cas's warm breath on his face.

 _Minty-fresh_ , Dean realized.  _He must've just brushed his teeth._

 _The aftershave smells nice, too._ Dean thought a moment later.  _He smells nice..._ And he shoved that thought away too.

Finally Dean wiped off the powder from the styptic pencil (the bleeding had long since stopped), and then put a little butterfly bandage across the cut.

"All done," said Dean, setting the razor and washcloth down. Cas looked much more like himself now, with the scruffy beard gone. It was awfully nice, really, to see him looking like his old self again. But, just to check once more, Dean ran his finger all along the edge of Cas's lower lip, just below the lip, around the cut. Just to check for stubble.

There was no stubble. Cas's skin was smooth and soft. He smelled  _really_ nice, too; the faint shaving-cream smell mingling with the aftershave, and the shampoo smell from his recent shower, and the minty scent of the toothpaste he'd just used.

Dean checked around his upper lip too, just to be thorough, running his finger softly along the edge of Cas's lip, and checking the tricky areas right at the corners of the mouth. No stubble. And the upper lip itself turned out to be quite soft.  _Funny, his lips always look so chapped but they feel really soft_ , thought Dean.

Curious, he ran his finger gently along the lower lip as well, right on the lip this time. It was soft too.

He checked the upper lip again, running his finger very slowly along it. Cas's lips were just... so...  _soft._ Much softer than Dean had expected.

It took surprisingly long for Dean to realize that he was lingering far too long at this. And that he'd been running his finger very, very slowly along Cas's  _lips_ , not the skin near his lips but his  _actual_ lips, for quite a while now.

He hesitated, his finger coming to a halt (but still on Cas's upper lip) and he'd just started to think, slightly confused, "Why did I volunteer to give him a shave, here in his room, on his friggin'  _bed_ , past midnight, after Sam went to sleep?" when Cas's mouth opened slightly. There was a velvet-soft damp touch on the tip of Dean's finger, and Dean jumped.

"Did you just  _lick_  me?" Dean said, pulling his hand back.

"Yes," said Cas calmly.

"Uh... why?"

"I was wondering how you taste."

 _Oh, no double-entendres there, nope, none at all_ , thought Dean. He turned aside, wiped both hands quickly on the washcloth, and reached out to the chair to set the washcloth down.

Dean opened his mouth to say "Well, that's it, all done!" but instead he accidentally said, "And... how do I taste?"

Just as a joke.

But Cas took it seriously, of course; he considered for a moment, running his tongue lightly over his lips. Dean found himself frozen still, one hand still reaching over to the chair with the washcloth, his head turned toward Cas. Watching that velvety tongue slowly slide around Cas's lips, just as Dean's finger had been doing mere moments ago.

 _Get a grip on yourself,_ Dean thought, turning resolutely back to the chair. He cleaned and dried the razor and set it back in its little bag.  _Pack up the stuff, wish him a happy new year, say goodnight and leave._

Cas finally said, "Your finger doesn't have as much taste to it as I was hoping."

The follow-up question "What were you hoping?" instantly sprang to mind, but Dean shoved that aside and made himself laugh, and made himself turn away again. He said, aiming for a lightly sarcastic, joking tone (and failing, he knew), "Yeah, fingers aren't usually the go-to spot for tasting someone, Cas."

"Where is the go-to spot, then?"

Dean forced another laugh. It came out sounding self-conscious, and he felt his face going hot.  _Where's the joke? Come up with a joke. Turn this into a joke, NOW._

"Not gonna go there, Cas," Dean finally said. "And you can't possibly be  _that_ naive."

"What?" Cas sounded genuinely puzzled, and Dean glanced over at him. Cas studied Dean's face for a moment, a puzzled frown on his face, and a moment later comprehension dawned in his eyes. He said, "Oh, you mean kissing?"

"That, yeah, and other things," muttered Dean, instantly kicking himself for mentioning "other things."

But Cas didn't seem to notice. His eyes finally flickered away from Dean's, and he was at once engrossed in studying the ceiling— and also now he looked a little sad. But he sounded calm as he said, "Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm tired, I wasn't thinking. I know you're not interested in that. I know that. And definitely not with this vessel."

"Yeah, not really... no...." said Dean, unable to put much conviction into his voice.

"That's what I thought," said Cas, with a little nod.

But Cas's tiny sigh, and the way he closed his eyes for a moment, did not go unnoticed. Cas lifted one hand and stroked his freshly shaven cheeks... and then touched a finger to his own lips.

As if wondering what a kiss would feel like.

"That would be a bad idea," said Cas. "You wouldn't be intereseted."

"Right," said Dean half-heartedly. "Yeah... it'd be a bad idea.... cause..."  _Wait, would HE be interested?_ "Because... I don't usually... I'm not... it wouldn't be... uh..."

"I've kissed people already anyway," Cas said, interrupting Dean's string of unfinished phrases. "Or, one person at least. I suppose I don't need to try it more. I was just wondering what it might be like with someone else. Someone who I knew."

Dean couldn't seem to talk at all.

"Someone I cared about," said Cas. "I was just wondering what that would be like."

"Y-yeah," said Dean, wondering exactly when Cas's bed had developed its unusually strong field of gravity. For Dean was pinned to the bed now. It was completely impossible to stand up and leave.

"Also, if we kissed, you might get pneumonia," said Cas. "Or influenza."

"Uh... your pneumonia's gone," said Dean, suddenly compelled to correct him on this point. "You've been on antibiotics for the full ten days now."

"Oh... really?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "No pneumonia. It's gone after ten days. That's what the doctors said. So. That's not a problem."

"But you still might get influenza," said Cas, two fingers still on his lips, gazing at Dean. "And you're not interested anyway. Right?"

Dean didn't respond. Instead he sat there watching as his own hand moved out to touch Cas's hand, and then his hand slid under Cas's, to cup Cas's cheek. Cas's eyes widened, and his hand tightened slightly on Dean's.

Dean felt like he was watching this from a long way away, like a confused coach on the sidelines whose team had suddenly started running the wrong way on the field, toward the wrong goal. Dean's hand shifted slightly, sliding down Cas's cheek to cup the side of his jaw, feeling his smooth, silky, fresh-shaven skin, and then Dean was leaning closer. A little alarm siren started wailing in his head, yelling,  _Wrong way, wrong way, you're going the wrong way_!

But it was drowned out by a hundred ringing bells that all seemed to be saying,  _Right way. Right way. This is the right way. This is where you should have been going all along._

Dean stalled four inches away. Staring down at Cas from four inches away. Cas was just gazing up at him, his blue eyes wide and gentle and unafraid.

Though he did also look a little puzzled.

Dean just hung there. Four inches away. Unable to speak.

Cas squinted at him and said, "Dean. What are you doing?"

"I'm kissing you," Dean said, amazed at himself.

"No, you're not," Cas pointed out. "You're hovering in the air four inches above my face."

"I'm giving you a chance to stop me," said Dean softly.

"Stop you because.... you might get... pneumonia?" said Cas.

"No... your pneumonia's gone, Cas," whispered Dean. "I told you that."

"Oh, right. Then because... you might get influenza?" Cas was looking about as confused as Dean felt.

"No," Dean whispered, still four inches away. "I had a flu shot."

"Oh, you did? That's— what, a vaccination?"

"Yeah," whispered Dean. "A vaccination."

"You get flu shots, do you?"

"Yeah, every fall," said Dean, still four inches away. The four inches was too significant a chasm; too profound a leap, so he was crouched here, braced now with his elbows on either side of Cas' face, looking down at him. One of Dean's hands drifted up to stroke Cas's hair as Dean took in the sight of his face: the bruises, finally fading; the stitches out; Cas's color, so much better; and Cas's eyes, open at last, after those dreadful days in the ICU. Looking up at Dean, searching his expression. Studying him.

"Sam and I always get flu shots every fall," Dean whispered to Cas, acutely aware of how absurd the situation was, and yet unable to cross the remaining chasm of space between them. "Dad had kind of a thing about it. He used to say, last thing a hunter needs when you're chasing monsters is to come down with the flu. There was this one time when we were after a pair of vengeful spirits and Sam got sick and I—"

"If you've had a flu shot, why would I want to stop you from kissing me?" Cas interrupted.

"I don't know," said Dean helplessly. "I don't know—"

It was Cas, finally, who reached up his hand to Dean's head, and pulled Dean down, guiding him across the chasm.

 _Fly me out of Hell_ , Dean thought, feeling Cas's hand on him so firmly, guiding him with such surprising surety.

_Fly me out of Hell._

_Fly me to Heaven._

 

* * *

 

It was a very soft kiss, for Dean was vividly aware of Cas's split lip, and his bruises, and how weak and tired he must still be. _And I shouldn't even be pressuring him_ , Dean thought.  _Not now. He's still just settling in and starting to feel at home here. I shouldn't be throwing this at him_.

Yet Cas seemed perfectly comfortable; his lips slightly parted, his tongue slowly running over Dean's lips. His warm breath, minty from the toothpaste, was wafting into Dean's mouth. There was a slight trace of the shaving-cream smell on his skin, a brand Dean had always liked that had hints of aloe vera and coconut; and the aftershave too, a faint mix of lemon and lavender. And under that the faintest of musks, a masculine scent; pleasant, strong; the scent of Cas's vessel, presumably.

And there was something else. Some other scent. Something almost tingly, something electric.

Lightning. Fire. Snow and stars.

Something alien.

Something otherworldly.

That was the scent of Cas himself, Dean knew.

Eventually Dean had to come up for air. He disengaged slowly, lifting his head up a little.

"Your mouth tastes much better than your finger," Cas said. His hand was still on the back of Dean's neck.

"Does it," whispered Dean back, too dazed to think of anything else to say.

"Yes," said Cas, his fingers stroking through Dean's hair now. "It's a very nice taste. But, Dean. You're not interested in this vessel in such a way. I know you're not. It's late, and maybe you're tired, so I think that we should each just go to sleep and—"

"This is why I didn't call," Dean blurted out. It had only just come clear to him, a revelation that burst over him like a dam breaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. This is why I didn't call. This is why I sent you away." Dean pushed himself up, barely able to look Cas in the eyes.

"What? You— what?" Now Cas looked worried. "But you said it was Gadreel— what are you talking about? What, did I, have I done something wrong?" He struggled to sit up a little, propping himself up on his elbows. "Dean, if I've done something wrong, please just forget it happened—  _please_  don't make me leave again—"

"No, shh, don't worry, Cas, I didn't meant that—" Dean said urgently, running a hand along Cas's hair and down to his shoulder. "You're staying. You're staying. I want you to stay. I  _really_  do." Dean squeezed Cas's shoulder gently. "Everything I told you about Gadreel was true. But, thing is, Cas, I  _know_  I could have found  _some_  way to call. You know it too. I could have found a way to set you up in some apartment closer, in Nebraska or something. I could have found some way to reach you. I could've come and visited more often. And I could have talked to you more, the one time I did visit. But... I didn't."

Cas looked very grim now, as if he were expecting a hammer to fall. He nodded slowly, and said, "I know."

"I didn't because I was scared," Dean said. "I'm so sorry, Cas. I was scared. I just realized right now how scared I was."

Cas stared at him. "I don't understand. What were you scared of?"

Dean could barely speak.

What finally came out of Dean's mouth was: "I was scared of you."

" _Me?"_ Cas sat all the way up now, and he said urgently, "But I wouldn't have hurt you, Dean— I never would, Dean, Naomi doesn't control me anymore, that really was just Naomi, it really wasn't me—"

"Not that. Not that. I was scared of you _and me_ ," Dean said, gesturing helplessly at Cas, and then back at himself. "You  _and me_. I was scared of  _you and me_. And I was an idiot and an asshole and I pushed you away, because I was scared."

Cas tilted his head a little to the side, squinting at him in confusion. It was such a classic Castiel-look that Dean nearly wept to see it, realizing all over again how close he'd come to losing Cas forever. Dean tried to explain, saying, "As soon as you turned up here I could see what was gonna happen. We got you back here, you'd just friggin'  _died_ on me, Cas, you'd been stabbed to death  _right in front of me_ ; you have no idea what that was like, to see that happen. To think you were gone—"

Dean's breath caught in his throat as he remembered the scene.

Cas was still staring at him, eyes dark and intent, as Dean went on, "And all of a sudden here you were, alive again, and,  _human_ , Cas,  _human_. You were  _human_ , in a way you've never been before, not since I've known you, and... you were going to live here with us and.... You were using the friggin'  _shower_. You came into the library the next morning and the first damn thing you said was about the  _shower_ , about water pressure, like, oh hey Dean, I was just naked in the shower and I thought I'd just tell you about it."

"I didn't say it like that," Cas whispered. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know. But that's what I heard, is what I'm saying. Then you launched in talking about  _sex_ , dammit, and all I heard was, oh god now he's had sex and he  _liked_ it and he's talking about how easy it is to slide into hedonism, and I... and I... " Dean drew an uneven breath. He shifted his hand, from Cas's shoulder back up to his cheek, and stroked his cheek for a moment. Cas hadn't taken his eyes off Dean's face, as Dean said, "I could see exactly what was gonna happen. I could see it clear as day. Just one step away. One night away. One friggin'  _room_  away. And I... just... panicked, Cas. I didn't even realize how much I panicked till right now. I'm so damn sorry."

Cas said, his voice low, "But I would  _never_ have done anything, Dean— I wouldn't have done anything—"

"I know. But I would have."

"And... that's... a bad thing because... because... because why? Because..." Cas thought it through, his voice going fainter and fainter, "because you don't...  want it. Right?"

"No, Cas. Because I want it too much," Dean said, once again lightly tracing a finger over Cas's lips. 

There was a long pause. Cas just kept staring at him.

Dean said, "One of the worst things about your journal was the way you kept thinking I didn't think well of you. That was totally backwards. You had it backwards, Cas. I'm so damn sorry I never made that clear. I'm so damn sorry that you got kicked out in the cold because I was just such a friggin' coward."

 _I should explain this better_ , thought Dean.  _I haven't explained this well at all. Also I need to make sure he actually wants this. I should make clear that he's welcome to stay here no matter what. I should make sure he knows that—_

But he didn't get a chance to explain anything more, for suddenly Cas had grabbed him again, both hands laced behind Dean's neck now, and he was pulling Dean down on top of him now, and they were kissing again. Dean tried to be gentle, tried to stay aware of the bruises and the sore lip. But it was too overwhelming and Dean forgot, and when he really let himself lie down on Cas, he felt Cas flinch in pain.

"Sorry, I forgot—" gasped Dean, trying to pull away. "You're sore— You're hurt. You've got all the cuts on your chest, too, I forgot about those—"

"I'm fine," said Cas, pulling him down again. "I'm fine, I swear I'm fine." Dean let go, sprawling full-length on Cas, kissing him all over. And, yeah, things were escalating. Things were going too fast. Way too fast. In fact... Dean suddenly realized he was getting quite a hard-on. Which his sweatpants were doing basically nothing to hide. _Cas must be able to feel it,_ Dean knew.  _I should pull back, I shouldn't pressure him, I should—_

But—  _whoa_ — Cas was getting hard too. _Really?_  Dean slid a hand down to check, and then had an attack of shyness and only got as far as Cas's hip. Then it turned out that just having his hand on Cas's  _hip_ , just having his hand on a pair of ordinary winter flannel pj's, pj's from goddamn Target, just over Cas's hip, was  _intensely_  exciting. Dean squeezed his hipbone, and tugged Cas up toward him a little, feeling a wild possessive thrill surge through him at the realization that he could move Cas around this way. Dean rolled off Cas, to the side, and experimentally tugged at his hip again; gripping him tight, pulling him close. Cas gave a small, throaty groan that was astonishingly exciting to hear, and he instantly pushed closer, following Dean's hand. Emboldened, Dean slid his hand around behind to... yes, to Cas's ass. Still Dean was hesitant, till one of Cas's hands was, unbelievably, on Dean's ass too, Cas meanwhile kissing Dean all along the neck. Dean tugged Cas toward him again, and Cas grabbed him back. And pushed against him. A thrust?  _Yeah, that was a thrust,_ thought Dean. And there was most definitely something warm and hard right there under Cas's pj's, pressing bluntly at Dean's stomach.

Cas pushed again. No shyness there. None at all.

"Aren't you supposed to be sick?" said Dean.

"I'm getting better," Cas said, grabbing again at Dean's ass, and starting to nibble at his ear.

"Really," said Dean, and this time he slid his hand around to Cas's groin, and put his hand on Cas's cock, through the pj's. Cas let out a long hiss as Dean did this, and Dean just held his hand there, feeling that long warm lump through the flannel. He took a long breath, and rested his forehead on Cas's shoulder, amazed at what was happening.  _This is going way too far, way too fast_ , he thought, but the thought was drowned out quickly by another thought:  _If it's gone this far this fast, might as well go farther! And faster!_ Dean almost laughed at himself. He rubbed his hand gently over Cas's cock, through the pjs, and heard Cas give another soft little groan, right in Dean's ear.

"I was sure you didn't want this," said Cas. "I was  _sure_.'

"Been wanting it ages," said Dean, kissing him again. "You sure  _you_ want this?"

In reply Cas grabbed Dean's hand and shoved it down inside the flannel pj's.

A moment later Dean had Cas's warm cock in his hand. Flesh against flesh. At the moment of contact, Cas gave another of those wonderful throaty groans, one arm tightening around Dean's shoulders, the other hand clutching at Dean's ass. Dean kissed his neck, and drank in that wonderful scent. Fire and lightning...

"This is—  _ah_ — the wrong vessel for you—" Cas whispered. "It's... totally wrong... for you...  _uhh..._ "

"I'll be the judge of that," said Dean, squeezing Cas's cock lightly, running his thumb over the head. Cas groaned.

"I picked a male...  _ah!—_ male vessel... so that... you wouldn't... get distracted.  _Nnn_. Needed you focused... on the mission."

"That what you wanted?"

"N-no..." said Cas. "No, I started to want... other things. But it wasn't allowed."

"When did you start wanting the other things?" asked Dean, curious.

"A little while... after I...  _uhhh_  .... after I met you..." said Cas, gasping.

"How long after?" said Dean, stroking the whole length of Cas's cock now. Just feather-light touches, up and down.

"About... ten seconds after," said Cas. "But... it wasn't... allowed...and... I'd picked... the wrong vessel...."

"It's allowed, Cas," said Dean. He unwrapped himself from Cas's arms and began to wriggle down on the bed. "Cause we're the only two who have to allow it. I was just too much of an idiot to let myself realize that." He wriggled down further, till he was down by Cas's hips.

He pulled Cas's pajama bottoms off.

And then took a moment to study Cas's cock. Watching how it was getting thicker now, standing up in the air. Twitching slightly whenever Dean touched it.

"And just by the way," said Dean, "you picked the right vessel." He pushed Cas over till Cas was lying on his back again. Then Dean licked his lips, working up his courage a bit, and he reached out and swirled his tongue around Cas's cockhead. Slowly. Very slowly. This time Cas had to muffle his groan into a pillow, and he actually writhed on the bed, his feet thrashing around by Dean's knees.

"Dean—" Cas gasped, "What are— you doing—"

"I was wondering how  _you_ taste," said Dean.

"You don't have to do this—"

"I'm not doing it because I have to, Cas," said Dean. He licked Cas's shaft, all the way from bottom to tip, and felt Cas shudder. "I'm doing it because I want to."

"Oh—okay then," gasped Cas. "You're sure you—  _nnngh!_ — want to? You're not... scared?"

"Not any more," said Dean, and for a moment he remembered Cas lying there in the hospital just ten days ago. Comatose. Nearly dead. Just because Dean had been too much of an idiot to let him know how important he was.

"Not sure why I ever was scared," Dean said. He closed his mouth over Cas's cockhead and ran his tongue all around it, more firmly this time. Cas cried out again, clutched the pillow to his face with one arm to muffle his cries, and knotted his other hand in Dean's  hair.

" _That's so good, it's so good, that feels so good_ ," Cas gasped when he got his face out of the pillow. "Dean, I'm not— going to last— very long—"

"S'okay," Dean mumbled, grabbing for one of the towels. He kept running his tongue around Cas's cockhead, jerking the soft skin on the shaft up and down, faster and faster. Faster still. It was so  _intensely_  hot, to feel Cas's cock getting stiffer; so  _intensely_ exhilarating, to hear Cas's little gasps and cries. So amazing to know he was giving Cas such pleasure.

So unbelievable to discover Cas had been wanting all this too.

"You taste good," Dean muttered. "You taste  _good_ —" Dean felt Cas's cock stiffening, felt it twitch, and he pulled the towel closer, torn between swallowing and wanting to see everything. Watching won out this time; as Cas gave a choked cry and his legs went rigid, Dean pulled back a little, feeling almost desperately eager to see every detail, all of it. He moved his hand faster, faster still, watching Cas's cock intently, and then reached out and licked the cockhead one more time. Cas's hips bucked once, twice, three times; Cas took in a huge gasp of air, and Dean saw Cas's cock throb hard under his hand, felt it go very stiff, and a huge spurt of semen shot up, high into the air, landing on Cas's bare chest. And another, and another, and another, a whole series of sharp streams, spurting up into the air. Cas's whole body was bucking, his torso curling up off the bed, and Dean glanced up to see his face contorted in ecstasy, his mouth wide, his eyes screwed closed. Cas bucked and bucked and bucked, thrashing on the bed. He started muttering, "so good...so good... so good..." as more and more semen leaked from his twitching cock, the last spurts just leaking slowly out of the tip.

By now Dean only had two thoughts in his head. One was:  _Why was I ever trying to fight this_? And the second was:  _This is the hottest thing I have ever seen and I'm about to cream my pants_. Cas had barely finished when Dean had yanked his own sweats off and was shoving his cock up against Cas's, muttering, "Do you mind— I just gotta—" The feel of his cock rubbing through Cas's own come, and pressing up against Cas's cock (still semi-erect) was mindblowingly intense, and Dean moaned at the sensation. "Ah, Cas, I just gotta—" He grabbed his own cock in his hand, planning to just finish himself off quickly while Cas recovered.

But a moment later Cas was shoving his way down the bed, flipping Dean over, reversing their positions. In seconds he was at Dean's hips, shoving Dean's hand out of the way.

Dean blurted, "You don't have to—"

"Not doing it cause I have to," said Cas briefly. "Doin' it cause I w—" The rest of the phrase was lost as his mouth found Dean's cock.

Instant ecstasy. Cas's mouth was scorchingly hot, his tongue as slick as silk. A moment later Dean realized Cas was exactly copying what Dean had just done to him: mouth on the cockhead, tongue swirling around, while his hand jerked firmly at the shaft.  _And he's a damn good copier_ , Dean decided, falling back on the bed with a gasp as Cas went to work. Dean didn't last much longer than Cas had, for the whole situation was impossibly exciting. Just to have Cas's hands on him, just to have Cas's mouth on him,  _at all,_ seemed the best thing Dean had ever felt in his life. _Castiel_ , Castiel himself; after all these years,  _Castiel_ , sucking Dean's cock— it was absolutely unbelievable. In a minute or less Dean was gasping out, "I'm close, I'm close, I'm coming, Cas, gonna come, yeah, yeah, ah,  _AH!"_ \- and it was on him. Jets of semen shooting out, his cock twitching in Cas's mouth, Dean convulsing on the bed, both hands knotted in the sheets, nearly out of his mind at how good it felt.

And Cas, it turned out, had decided to swallow instead of to watch. Dean felt Cas's hot tongue wrapped around Dean's cock the entire time, through every spurt. All Dean could do was moan, and groan, and clutch at the sheets, gasping with the intense pleasure of it. 

Cas held Dean's softening cock in his mouth for long moments more, swirling his tongue around Dean's cock gently while it slowly softened. An entire minute at least, Cas stayed there, with his mouth still on Dean's cock.

Finally Cas raised his head, letting Dean's cock slip out of his mouth at last. He said, "You taste good." He considered a moment, licking his lips. "Salty," he added, "But good."

Dean had to take a moment to catch his breath. He finally said, "Does that mean you might want to do that again?"

"At every opportunity, I should think," Cas said. He reached over to the chair and dipped one of the washcloths in the pan of clean water, and wiped Dean and himself clean. Then he wriggled his way back up to Dean. "I mean... if you wanted. Dean, I'm not actually sure what you want. Was this just to celebrate the new year? Or— is it just part of how you teach people to shave?"

Dean had to laugh. "I don't normally trade blow jobs with my friends for New Year's Eve, actually," he said. "And I've never had a blow job after a shave, either. Pretty sure it's just you. And... yeah, at every opportunity sounds about perfect. Cas...." Dean put both hands on Cas's head, looking into his eyes. "I know I've said this a lot, but, I really  _am_ so sorry."

"Already forgave you," said Cas briefly, turning his head to kiss one of Dean's hands. He pulled free a moment later, and started moving all the towels off the bed and pulling the pillows closer. "And if you do more of what you just did, I'm sure I'll forgive you anything else."

"I've just been such an idiot."

"Yes," Cas agreed. "You have. Me too." He turned out the light and next thing Dean knew, Cas was lying down next to him, and pulling the covers over both of them.

"I know you have your own bedroom," said Cas. "But if you'd like to stay here, you'd be most welcome."

There were all kinds of decisions ahead, Dean knew. All kinds of potential complications. What would happen in the morning?... what would Sam think... what would happen next?

But maybe, just maybe, it wasn't as complicated as he'd been thinking.

Maybe everything would just... work out.

For once.

"I'd like to stay," Dean confessed, rolling over and grabbing onto him. "I really would."

"Good," said Cas. "Then would you like a pillow? I've got lots to share."

Cas insisted on giving Dean not just a pillow for his head, but also on wedging six or seven other pillows all around them in a kind of circle.  _He's making a nest_ , Dean thought, as Cas settled the last pillows in place around them, so that they were both nestled into nearly a complete circle of pillows. Then Cas tucked the two blankets right up to Dean's chin. Finally Cas wrapped his arms around Dean, and Dean tucked his head down on Cas's shoulder, still in disbelief.

Dean thought it would take quite a while to fall asleep. But instead, as soon as he felt Cas's arms around him, Dean relaxed.

 _Fly me out of Hell_ , Dean thought.

_Fly me to Heaven._

They fell asleep there, in Cas's nest of pillows and blankets, safe and warm. Wrapped in each other's arms.

 

* * *

 

_A/N  - there you go, just a quick one-shot for New Year's!_

_I've long had a theory that one reason Dean was so brusque about kicking Cas out might have been that he was trying to push Cas away for some reason. If you look back at that episode, human-Cas comes wandering into the room talking about showers and sex... and next thing you know, Dean has meekly followed Gadreel's orders to kick him out. Sure, it was mostly because of Gadreel, obviously; but I've always wondered if there was another, subconscious, reason that Dean pushed Cas away so readily, and didn't really make an effort to keep in touch with him later. Some reason that maybe Dean didn't want to admit to himself? I like the idea, anyway._

_Hope you enjoyed this! Just my little smut contribution to a happy new year for all of you. Hope you liked it._


End file.
